


Objet d'art

by bmouse



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M, Mild Kink, Photo Shoots, Polyamorous Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 15:25:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8758402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bmouse/pseuds/bmouse
Summary: ob·jet d'artnoun,a decorative or artistic object, typically when regarded as a collectible item.
Kise's birthday present this year is a very special sort of photo shoot. And for once he isn't the model.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for No-Shame November, I just forgot to post it >_>. This little interlude is actually part of a ridiculously self-indulgent series of fluffy future fics where the post-high-school GoM(and selected boyfriends) all live in a giant house as a big polyamorous blob.  
>  But it stands pretty well on its own and I do adore KiKasa as a pairing so there you go.

It’s Kise's birthday, that's the excuse. At least it’s a familiar one, all along his past stretches a string of 'it’s Kise's first solo photo book' and ‘it's Kise's first cameo in a music video’ to ‘it’s Kise's first interview on a major tv network’. He’d once come home at 2am from a karaoke parlor like a regular teenager because it was Kise's first time hosting an event, even if was just a local teen idol contest. Ever since the beginning those kinds of occasions were celebrated with evenings out, watching semi-pro games together, getting ice cream, dinners. Dates, really. At some point even he couldn't be so obstinate as to not call them dates. 

Kisses (to start with) had bookended the last twenty of them. If he ever needed a reminder of the ironic vagaries of life, there was the fact that Kasamatsu Yukio - boundlessly awkward in every traditional romantic arena, had actually acquired a fair amount of experience dating proto-supermodel Kise Ryouta. 

He wasn’t the only one dating Kise Ryouta.

But instead of fruitless anger or jealous fits, like absolutely everything he'd ever read on the subject had lead him to expect, knowing that his boyfriend had other boyfriends left him strangely relieved and grateful. Grateful that he alone didn’t have to provide the person he loved with everything that they needed. Because he knew himself, and knew that he couldn’t.

He was very busy with his physiotherapy program. The coursework was intensive, his practicum hours cut further into his schedule, and unlike his old friend Moriyama's optimistic ideas on the subject he had not blossomed into a gracious, social sort of man overnight just because he’d hit his twenties. He’d kept his old, small circle of friends, he’d kept Kise, but he still enjoyed his privacy and his solitude. 

_Actually, come to think of it I'm the boring sort of man who gets into university and still keeps dating the kouhai he fell in love with in high school_. 

Absolutely nothing else about his romantic life had gone as expected. Not his preferences, not his first crush - the gender and personality of the person involved, the fact that that same person had taken all his other ‘firsts’. Society still insisted that what he’d kept with Kise was a flawed arrangement, that anything that wasn’t monogamous exclusivity was ‘foolish’ and ‘deviant’ and ‘wasting each other’s time.’ In the face of all of that Kasamatsu Yukio grumbled and blushed and was content. 

And Kise was always so happy to see him. Whenever they could steal time there was still this magnetic intensity alive between them - as strong as when they had showered in adjacent stalls, dodging each other’s longing, hopeful looks. The way things stood let them both enjoy each other’s company and breathe easier. He was old enough to see the wisdom in that. 

Though what he was doing now, what he’d agreed to, wasn't very wise at all. 

Actually it was pretty damn embarrassing. Terribly indulgent. Spoiling his ridiculous libertine boyfriend in the worst way. 

And worst of all it was fussy. From the hour he had spent going through his mother’s storage closet in search of his old leg compressors, to the innocent-looking padded envelope that had arrived for him at a private PO box (like he was living in a spy film, _christ_ ) that he had ripped open in his bedroom with the blinds drawn. Already that was a lot of hassle. 

And then today, in keeping with the spy film theme he had walked down his apartment stairs on trembling, unsteady legs and climbed into a sleek black car that had taken him past the gates to a huge gated compound. In the compound was a House, that was where Kise lived now. Kise had met him at the door, dressed in a three piece suit that was more severe and old fashioned than the bright fluttery stuff and print pants he usually wore in the summer. 

They didn’t have that much to say to each other. Yukio's burning face and long trenchcoat and golden heels made things pretty damn clear. It took Kise about half a second to immediately ruin his own ‘stern and forbidding’ image by making a high pitched keening sound and shoving about six of his manicured fingertips into his mouth before squealing "Ohhh my GOD!!! Senpai. Yukiocchiiii ~~<33 _Really_? Y-you, really?! This is gonna be so great~ This is the happiest day of my life!! And-"

Like an experienced opera singer, Kise took an incremental pause for breath.

"-it's worth getting one year closer to Christmas Cake status if I can see Kasamatsu-senpai in- "

Yukio cut him off. 

"Who's a Christmas Cake, you ridiculous idiot?! Do I have to come by the studio again and yell at those people for making you insecure? Hurry up dammit, it's drafty here." 

It's embarrassing how well Yukio knows the his way around this House. In a way his mind still skitters around the truth of it, preferring to acknowledge only the facts: Akashi Seijuurou inherited an old house from his mother's family. He leases it out to his former middle school teammates, at very reasonable terms. All of them work or study in the city. 

It's convenient. It's just very convenient with these long grounds and shielding hills and high hedges. There are common areas and a huge kitchen and a private basketball court, rumors of a pool somewhere in the basement. It's like a very high-end dorm (with no staff. Kise complains about the chore wheel, complains about scrubbing the hardwood floors on his knees). It' s convenient - a House with seven soundproof bedrooms, far from prying eyes. 

Plush carpeting snags on his heels, muffles their steps on the way upstairs.

Kise's room is familiar too but it's been rearranged. His usual ridiculous furniture has been pushed back towards the walls but there's a brand new Western-style sofa thing by the door. It’s French maybe, he thinks. A ‘chaise’-something.

In the center of everything is a round metal platform. On it stands a tall barstool - white-painted wood with pale blue velvet upholstery. It’s like a set up for an art show, a fancy gallery viewing. Which, um, this kind-of is.

"You really prepared, huh..." slips out of Yukio’s mouth.

"Oh this old thing? We usved to have one for the 360 static shoots and they let me take it home when the studio got a new one. Don't worry senpai, it doesn't bite..." Kise pulls a small remote out of the pocket of his vest. "Rotates though! <3." 

When he clicks it the remote makes an obscene buzzing sound. The platform turns clockwise, butter-smooth. It makes Yukio shiver.

"Do you want a drink to start, senpai? I’ve got that gin brand you like~" 

He nods, probably too quickly. Kise’s surprisingly thoughtful like that. The coat is still...drafty and he won’t sneer at a little liquid courage.

"Right." he says, almost to himself. "OK." 

He still sort-of can’t believe he’s here, about to do this. What was the reason for this nonsense again? ‘Nostalgia’ and ‘aesthetics’ wasn’t it? He’s not too sure about the first bit, God knows they never did anything like _this_ in high school. Or the second bit, really. Though now a part of him is huffing steam indignantly in the back of his brain on his own behalf. He’s taken real good care of his body since his days as team Captain, though he’s never had the handsomest face...

_Aw to hell with it._

As Kise bustles back towards a liquor cabinet he unzips his trenchcoat and drapes it over the arm of the sofa-thing. There’s the smallest warm breeze in the room and now Yukio feels it everywhere but his knees.

When Kise turns around with the gin glasses he almost drops them. On the way back to him he stumbles. Twice.

To save him, to mask his own nerves, Yukio takes one of the drinks and knocks it back, throat working quickly.

"So, how should I sit?" he asks.

He puts the glass down. The sound is too loud. His boyfriend’s golden eyes are devouring him.

"However you're comfortable" is the whispered answer. It comes out sultry even though he knows Kise’s not trying for it.

Walking towards the platform without looking back is difficult. He's wearing the damn heels, his old leg compressors (they were stretched out to hell and back before he retired them, and now the tops of them fall well above his knees) attached to the delicate lace garter belt that he’d gotten in the PO box envelope. Nothing else. 

Slowly he puts the ball of the right heel on the lowest rung of the barstool, keeping his balance. A little arm strain, and some unfortunate flashbacks to the Kaijou High School gymnastics PE unit, and he’s astride the chair.

The velvet upholstery is soft and new and drags across the naked skin of his balls in a shamefully pleasurable fashion. Hands on his thighs, legs demurely crossed, shoulders curled in on himself, he sits. It’s tempting, so tempting, to keep his chin down. Kasamatsu Yukio takes a breath - feeling it everywhere, feeling the fabric shift over his calves feeling the velvet hug the curves of his ass, and looks up. 

Kise is still there, still staring at him. He can feel his own usually-steady cheeks working up a flush. He’s yielded completely, god knows, but in a way he still feels like he’s won something. So instead of looking down again he meets Kise’s eyes square-on - ‘yeah I did that, now what.’ 

The thing about challenging Kise though, you’re never ahead for long.

With that return stare Kise seems to remember the role he wrote for himself. With a ruthless twist of his hand he loosens his tie. Walking backwards to the chaise he folds himself gracefully down, steeples a hand on his thighs, balances the drink in his hand and brings it up to his lips, throat working, eyes exactly where they were.

In that moment a picture of him could sell anything in the world. 

It's a stalemate of sorts. Yukio stays still. Kise watches, coiled on the couch, sipping slowly.

Probably five minutes pass. They sure as hell don’t feel like five minutes 

Yukio doesn't squirm. He's a stubborn man, and if his job tonight is supposed to be 'a valuable thing on a pedestal' - an 'objet d' art' like Kise had called it( Kise and his whole freaking _thing_ about anything French). Well he’s not backing down, damn it, he’s going to do his best.

The light on him isn’t harsh, it rests pleasantly on his scalp and neck. His shoulders uncurl a little in the warmth. After the first minute he looks anywhere but at Kise because if he keeps looking at his boyfriend certain unavoidable things might happen; leg cramps, his heart crawling out of his mouth, his dick getting hard. 

He tries closing his eyes but it’s worse because then he can feel everything - the devilishly soapy-smoothness of the lace, the familiar fabric of the leg compressors, suggesting to his hind-brain that he should be wearing basketball shorts and a jersey and normal shoes for chrissake and leaving him even more aware of the fact that he’s wearing none of those things. Would he feel better if he had bandaids on his nipples right now, or worse? It would probably just make it kinky. _More_ kinky. 

The bandaids would pull when they came off, and sometimes the slight sting of it had left him with a shameful buzz under his skin after practice.

His nipples are hard now. He blames the warm light, the breeze in the room, the damn garters stretched along his inner thighs that whisper with every shift in position, Kise.

In the quiet of the room he can hear Kise's heavy panting breaths in between his own. At least they’re in this together.

Some seconds a later a numbness in his left quad forces him to readjust his seat. There's no way to do it on the narrow barstool and keep his legs demurely crossed at the same time.

Kise snaps. He damn near leaps off the sofa stalks to the cabinet and pulls something out. God, it better not be anything involving feathers.

But no, it’s a camera, an old-as-their-parents actual _film_ camera with silvery buttons and a bright beetle lens. Kise holsters it with practiced ease, a hunter angling for the kill, and snaps off a shot.

_Ka-click_ goes the mechanism. _Ka-click, ka-click._

At first he’s only testing it out but then he stalks closer and it’s a lot more deliberate. He’s picking angles, idly biting his lip in a passable attempt at professional detachment, really shooting him. Yukio feels pinned under the lens. 

Grinning wickedly Kise flourishes the remote.

Yukio barely has time to grab the bottom of the barstool and brace his legs for balance. A shudder goes through him when the platform moves. 

After a small eternity the film runs out and Kise sets the ancient thing down with a little moue of disappointment. But he's hardly done.

It's a digital camera next. Sleek, modern, and 90% lens. Just when Yukio had barely gotten used to the old one, trained himself to hold still and not flinch at the sound. Knowing him Kise probably enjoyed the flinch. He wonders if in the pictures he looks remote and outside himself, or just the way he feels - a normal guy stripped down and out of his depth.

And then when that round finishes Kise leans back takes him in, tensed and trembling and pulls out his phone.

The first thing the cheeky bastard does with it is take a picture of Yukio’s ass. A close-up. Then the bend of his knees, the back of his neck. He kneels down and he must be taking pictures of his feet in the heels. then with a cat-got-the-milk-factory smile he tilts the phone upward.

Are ‘beautiful objects’ banned from swearing? Probably. Just his goddamned luck. 

Before he can blink Kise’s hand is just under his chin but not touching him. Tilting his face up. His eyelashes, Kise’s taking pictures of his eyelashes.

Kise wasn’t lying when he said that for his birthday he wanted every single bit of him. He has Yukio now. _Has_ him, in his most vulnerable graceless entirety. Kise will keep him forever.

It feels like something inevitable, after all Kise has the most of him that he has shown to anyone in the world, and damn his own matching sentimental tendencies because he can feel a sweet pain at the corners of his eyes.

“Hey, I know we didn’t talk about this, but do you want a blindfold?”

Yukio nods. Immediately. Bless the way Kise can read him. Something about having to see himself be observed is driving him out of his mind - air can’t quite make it into his lungs, his heart is beating tightly against his ribs.

With infinite gentleness Kise winds his silk tie around his head.

Yukio can't help himself and leans into his warmth for a moment. then he leans back into his old pose. He still has his pride and a job to finish.

Kise rewards him with a quick peck on his nose, at the same time as his other hand strokes his thighs open. 

Defenceless against this unexpected attack, innocence and experience in Kise's usual devastating combination, Yukio makes a short broken sound. He can feel his own pre-come trickling down, soaking into the neatly cropped thatch of hair between his legs.

Kise presses his advantage: lips at his ear “I’m sorry I can’t help myself. I just want a couple more? God you’re so beautiful, you have no idea. No idea.” his voice rises from a whisper, becoming a pleading whine “Yukiocchi, Yukio, you’ll let me won’t you? Can I? _Can I?_ Please.."

“Y-yeah.” Yukio’s voice is hoarse.

Sweat rolls down his chest, prickles at the nape of his neck. Under the light his hair must be turning spiky and damp.

It’s easier in the dark like this - to let his legs fall apart, to arch his back, to give Kise everything he wants.The whirring of the turning platform, Kise’s sharp graceful footsteps stalking around him, the clicks of the cameras. All of it starts all over again. 

~


End file.
